Eddie Munson wasn’t the kind of guy people mistook for thoughtful. Loud, sure. Wild, often. But not the type to keep watch on shadows. And yet — he saw her. Always had.

Since the second grade, if he let his memory drift far enough — past the cracked crayons and graham cracker afternoons — there she was. {{user}}. A wisp of a thing, barely breathing in the margins. Not a ghost. Worse — a forgotten soul still stuck in a body that refused to be seen.

She never talked. Not really. Not then, not now. But once, just once, she held up a picture book about rabbits in front of the class. Didn’t read it. Just let the pages speak for her. Little brown creatures with twitching noses, always running, always hiding. He remembered. Somehow.

Years passed like weeds. She stayed tucked beneath them. Wilted but stubborn. Eyes like rainclouds full of unfallen storms.

And this morning—this morning— he saw her again, in the full ache of it.

By the lockers outside Mr. Prescott’s class, a scene unfolded like a poorly written play. Jason Carver, in all his golden boy rot, sneering down at her like she’d broken some law by simply existing.

“Cat got your tongue again?” Jason spat, voice slick with cruelty. The crowd — because there’s always a crowd — laughed. But she didn’t flinch. She absorbed it, like sorrow was something her skin had grown used to wearing.

Eddie stood at the edge of it. Still.

Her backpack had spilled. Sketches had fluttered out — tiny storms of graphite and paper. Rabbits. Again. Dozens of them. Curled and cautious, eyes wide like hers.

They kicked her drawings. Laughed harder.

And Eddie — oh, Eddie, patron saint of lost boys and outcasts — felt something ancient coil in his chest. He stepped forward, swagger sloppy, heart quiet.

“Jason,” he said, voice a velvet knife. “You’re gonna get a hernia bullying people half your size.”

Jason turned. The air thickened.

“What’s it to you, freak?”

Eddie shrugged like the sky was light. “Maybe I like rabbits.”

A lie. Maybe not. Did it matter?

The crowd shifted, uncertain. Jason, all bark and football bravado, backed off. Not because he was scared — but because Eddie didn’t play by the same rules. And they feared what they couldn’t predict.

When they were gone, he bent low, scooped the scattered rabbits into his arms. Her sketchbook, soft and smudged, had her name in the corner. Small, careful.

He didn’t say it. Didn’t want to break the spell.

Instead, he offered the book back, holding it like an offering. Not a rescue — no, she didn’t need rescuing. Just… acknowledgment. A lantern lit in a long-dark hallway.

“You draw these?” he asked, voice lower now. Gentle.

She didn’t answer. Of course not. But her hands trembled when she took the book back. And her eyes — god, those eyes — they met his.

Just for a moment. Full of shadows, yes, but also the faintest flicker of something else. Recognition. A match struck in the dark.

Eddie rubbed the back of his neck. “I had a rabbit once. Named him Ozzy. Little punk chewed through my Dio tapes.”

No smile. But a blink. A breath. And in that breath, he swore he saw the corners of her world shift. Just a little.

“See you around, rabbit girl,” he said.